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O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village

broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceas’d; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

But, chiefly, Man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: On other days, the man of toil is doom'd To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board, screen'd from the winter's

cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosom'd in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God,-nor thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With cover'd face, and upward, earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke, While, wandering slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom

Around his roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may
be one Sabbath without end.

Grahame,

THE CLOCK AND THE SUN DIAL.

A FABLE.

I am

It happen'd on a cloudy morn,
A self-conceited clock, in scorn,

A dial thus bespoke;
My learned friend, if in thy power,
Tell me exactly what's the hour;

upon

the stroke.
The modest dial thus replied:
That point I cannot now decide,

The sun is in the shade;
My information drawn from him,
I wait till his enlightening beam

Shall be again display'd.
Wait for him, then, return'd the clock;
I am not that dependant block

His counsel to implore;
One winding serves me for a week,
And hearken! how the truth I speak,

Ding, ding, ding, ding; just four.
While thus the boaster was deriding,
And magisterially deciding,

A sun-beam clear and strong,
Shew'd, on the line, three quarters more;
And that the clock, in striking four,

Had told his story wrong.

On this, the dial calmly said,
(More prompt t advise than to upbraid,)

Friend, go, be regulated;
Thou answerest without hesitation,
But he who trusts thy calculation,

Will frequently be cheated.
Observe my practice, shun pretence,
Not confidence, but evidence,

An answer meet supplies;
Blush not to say, 'I cannot tell,'
Not speaking much, but speaking well,
Denotes the truly wise.

De la Motte.

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Ah, me! how mournful, wan, and slow,

With arms revers'd the soldiers comeDirge-sounding trumpets full of woe,

And, sad to hear--the Muffled Drum. Advancing to the house of prayer,

Still sadder flows the dolesome strain; E’en industry forgets her care,

And joins the melancholy train! O! after all the toils of war,

How blest the brave man lays him down!
His bier is a triumphal car-

His grave is glory and renown!
What though no friends, nor kindred dear,

To grace his obsequies attend !
His comrades are his brothers here,

And every hero is his friend!

See Love and Truth, all woe-begone,

And Beauty, drooping in the crowdTheir thoughts intent on him alone,

Who sleeps unconscious in his shroud! Again the trumpet slowly sounds

The soldier's last funereal hymnAgain the Muffled Drum rebounds,

And every eye with grief is dim! The generous steed which late he rode,

Seems too its master to deplore, And follows to his last abode

The warrior who returns no more !
For him far hence a mother sighs,

And fancies comforts yet to come!
He'll never bless her longing eyes,
For whom resounds the Muffled Drum!

Mayne.

TO-MORROW.

TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to–I will not hear of it. Ío-morrow!
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty—who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and

promises,
The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period nowhere to be found
In all the hoary registers of time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.

Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought on such stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic visions in the evening.
But soft, my friend; arrest the present moments;
For be assur'd, they all are arrant tell-tales;
And though their fight be silent, and their path

trackless
As the winged couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly-
Because, though station'd on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic’d, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumber'dst on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who shall tell thy audit ?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings,
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
Oh! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee. Cotton.

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE,

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.

BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,

The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,

To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

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